


He Would Never

by knitbelove (ladymac111)



Series: The happy ending is when things are going to begin for me. [9]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Berlin (City), Clubbing, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7917301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/knitbelove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Penny asks me periodically if Baz has ever bitten me. My answer is always emphatic: "no, he would never, how can you say that."</p><p>I'm afraid that the next time she asks, she'll know I'm lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Would Never

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately following "in grace and love."
> 
> Mild emetophobia warning. Advisory for recreational drug use.
> 
> Thank you Ahiku for beta reading my German!! I really appreciate your feedback.

 

_-Simon-_

Berlin is beautiful.

I’m sure that some of my experience is coloured by the fact that I’m here with the love of my life, but that doesn’t make my experience any less true.  I’m sure I’d still love it even if I wasn’t here with Baz, but really, when am I ever going to be anywhere not with Baz?  So this is the baseline, now, this is the colour of the rest of my life, and I absolutely love it.

After our stroll the first evening, we came back to our cosy little borrowed flat and made love tenderly, then when we woke up the next morning we had vigorous, bed-shaking sex.  Baz was rather loud (as he often is) and I was a bit concerned about the neighbours, but he pointed out that it was a weekday and late enough that they were probably out.

It’s our second full day here, now.  We’ve been taking it very easy, eating a lot of good food, spending a lot of time in bed, and in between seeing a few of the sights in Kreuzberg and Mitte, the neighbourhood just north of here.  I’ve left all of that decision-making to Baz, and so far he’s taken me to the Jewish Museum and the Holocaust Memorial.  His dad is part Ashkenazi, as are most of Daphne's family, so he feels a personal connection to this bit of history.  None of his family were killed -- mages as a whole escaped that horror -- but I guess there's something about being Jewish, even a little bit.

The Holocaust Memorial is a pretty heavy experience for both of us.  We lighten it up afterwards with a late lunch, and we stop on our way back in a shop that sells a vast amount of tourist crap covered in the distinctive East Berlin “walk” and “don’t walk” signals.  The little men are cute, but I don’t understand the apparently gigantic appeal they have.  Baz buys a t-shirt.

I’m beat when we finally make it back, and my husband joins me for an afternoon nap, which is actually mainly sleeping.  There’s a bit of snogging at the end, but we keep our pants on.  Then he orders a pizza to be delivered for dinner so we don’t have to get out of bed yet.

Later in the evening, Baz gets us dressed up and we head out to a club in Fiona’s neighbourhood.  He’s wearing the tightest jeans he owns (honestly thank you Uniqlo for making them), and a shirt under his favourite green cashmere jumper, with his hair down and curling around his shoulders.  He looks like a model.  I’d be worried about other guys (other people) making passes at him, but I know that his rejection would be epic -- time and again he’s demonstrated that he only has eyes for me.

We can hear the music from the street.  It’s louder in the courtyard, and louder still indoors.  I’ve never been much of one for house music, but I like this in context, it really makes the experience.  Once we’re in Baz makes a beeline for the bar.  I hang back, behind his shoulder; he’s speaking German to the barkeep, and it’s so loud I’m sure I couldn’t understand even if it was English.

Then we have our drinks, and he takes me to some couches in a sunken circle in the floor.  There’s a spot that’s just barely big enough for the two of us, and we crowd into it.  He’s practically in my lap, and I hold him close while we sip our beverages.

When we’ve finished our beers, Baz leans over, his face right beside mine so I can hear him speak.  “There’s something I’d like to try with you.”

I lean back far enough to give him a surprised look.  “What sort of something?”

He gives me a smirk and reaches into his hip pocket, extracts something I might have expected to see here, but not in his hand: a hand-rolled cigarette, and I’m certain it’s not tobacco.

I can only imagine the look on my face.  “Is that _weed?_ ”

His smirk has become a full-on grin.  “Yeah.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Fiona left it for us.  Wedding gift.”

I tip my head back and laugh, and Baz slides his arm around my waist.  “Fiona spoils you,” I say.

“She does.”

“Shall we take that outside?”

“Yeah, let me get my coat.  Do you want yours?”

I feel like it wasn’t that cold when we were outside before; I’m sure I’ll be fine for a little bit, and I can always come back for it.  Besides, we’re just going out to the courtyard where we passed all the smokers on the way in, so there won’t be any wind.  “No, I’m fine.”

I follow him outside, and we find a little bench to sit down on.  There’s plenty of other people out here, and I’m certain that we’re not the only ones doing drugs, but I’m still a tad nervous.

Baz clicks his fingers to conjure a tiny flame, and lights the joint off it, takes a few quick puffs, then a slightly longer drag.  He’s clearly done this before, though it’s not clear to me how similar this is to a regular tobacco cigarette.  I don’t know if he’s actually done weed before.  I feel like he probably has?

He passes it to me carefully, and I take it between my thumb and forefinger.  “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

There’s my answer.  I shake my head.  “Never had the opportunity.  Or much of a desire.”

“It’s okay if you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it.”

“I do want to right now, I’m just saying.”

He smiles and leans in even closer, practically draping himself over me.  “Just take a little toke on it, real short.  Then fill your lungs with normal air.”

I lift it to my lips and inhale for a second -- it’s about as I expected.  I take it down and breathe the rest of my breath normally, resisting the urge to cough.  It does happen a bit on my exhale, though.

Baz gives me an exceedingly fond look and takes the joint back.  “All right?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

I watch him take another drag, close his eyes while he holds his breath for a moment.  The smoke curls out of his nose when he exhales slowly, and it’s extraordinarily sexy.

He opens his eyes then, but not all the way, they’re still hooded and lazy and his gaze is the colour of smoke.  “Want to try something?”  His voice is so deep I think I can feel it in my bones.

“Sure.”

He takes another drag, a deep one, then puts his other hand on my cheek and draws me into a kiss.  When his lips part, I understand -- I open my mouth to him and inhale gently.  It feels a little weird, taking his breath, which is only slightly warmer than the cold outside air.  But I can taste the smoke, can feel the drug beginning to affect me, make me feel relaxed and happy.  It’s -- well, it’s intoxicating.

I understand the appeal of pot now.

Baz draws back, but I’m not finished kissing him, and I put one hand on the back of his neck and pull him back in.  This kiss is rougher, dirtier; he hums against me, and when we do break apart again, we’re both breathing a little heavier.

He grins at me.  “Like it?”

“Yeah.”

He lifts it to his lips again, and I stay close, my fingers still tangled in the hair on the back of his head.  He leans into me when he exhales, and then hands over the joint; I take a deeper drag than I did before, and I do it smoothly this time.  Baz looks immensely proud when I hand it back.

“You’re getting good at that.”

“I have a good teacher.”

Even though we spend a good fraction of our time snogging, it seems like it takes hardly any time for us to finish the joint, and when we do I definitely feel pleasantly heavy.  Baz stands up from the bench and offers me his hand; I take it and he leads me back inside, towards the loudest music, only barely stopping to take off his coat.

He takes me out onto the dance floor, into the middle of the crowd.  The beat is so pervasive I can’t help feeling it, letting it move me.  I don’t really know what I’m doing -- and I’m not doing much -- but it seems to be working for Baz.  He’s all over me, dancing I guess, grinding definitely, obviously having an excellent time.  I put my hand up on the side of his neck and he tips his head into my touch with a blissful smile, head thrown back, and slides his hands around my waist.

I can’t take my eyes off him while he dances with me.  The look on his face is one I hardly ever see, completely relaxed, carefree, smiling like everything in the world is just right.  He pulled his hair back into a sloppy bun when we came inside, but he kept it loose, and a couple of wavy locks have come free and fall across his face when he moves.

I never knew dancing could be so sexual.  Well, I mean, I guess I _did_ , but it was never real until now.  He looks blissful.  The urge to touch him is overwhelming, even though my hands are already on him; I let them slide over his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his shoulders again.

His hands are strong on my back, holding me against him, pressing us together.  His touch and the music and the drugs in my blood -- it’s hypnotic, intoxicating.  I stop resisting and let it take me, sway me, move me in his arms.  The only things in the world are me, and him, and the beat, and the delicious sexual energy between us.

When the song ends, in the moment before the next one begins, I lean into him and he meets me with an open-mouthed kiss.  I can still taste the sweetness of the weed smoke on his tongue, smell it on his skin, probably in his hair too, mixed with a faint smell of his sweat.  I pull his lower lip into my mouth and drag my teeth over it, and I can feel his breath catching as his hands tighten in my shirt; he says something against my cheek, but I can’t hear him at all.

I draw my head back enough that I can see him, maybe read his lips.  “What?”

“I said you’re being _naughty._ ”

I laugh, and he lifts both hands to my face, brushes his knuckles against my cheeks.  “I’m thirsty, are you?”

Now that I think about it, I am, a bit.  “Yeah.  Beer?”

He nods, and I think he says “Sure,” but he’s looking around so I’m back to not really being able to hear him or see what he’s saying.

I lead him off the dance floor towards the bar, and the crowd thins out and gets just a bit quieter.  There are quite a few people crowded around the bar, though, so I make a decision.  “Let me get it this time.”

He raises his eyebrows.  “Are you sure?”

I shrug.  “I know the German word for beer.  It’s not like it matters very much what exactly I get, and the hand signal for two is universal.”

He smiles fondly.  “You have cash?”

“Yeah.”

He leans in and gives me a peck on the lips.  “Okay.  I’ll be right here.”

_-Baz-_

I dressed Simon tonight, like I always do when we go out, and I can’t help thinking I did a particularly good job.  He’s wearing dark jeans that hug his arse just so, and a long sleeve t-shirt in heather grey with a v-neck that’s a little deeper than he normally wears, showing off some of his collarbones and the entire length of his glorious neck.  And it clings to his shoulders, making them look especially broad.

He looks absolutely delicious.  And he seems to know how good he looks, because I think he’s moving a little differently, flirtatiously.  I’m sure he knows I’m watching.  He must know what this is doing to me.

My cock woke up in my pants while we were dancing.  I did expect this, when I brought the pot; when I did it before it always made me randy, though I never had a partner then.  Having Simon now -- having him looking _like that_ \-- is adding a new dimension to this.  I decide I don’t care if anyone notices the bulge in my trousers.  Let them know that I get to go home with _him._

He turns away from the bar with a glass in each hand.  One of them is pale and the other appears to be green, and that’s the one he hands to me.

“What’s this?”  I can barely hear myself speak over the thumping house music.

He shrugs.  “No idea, somebody at the bar ordered it for me but didn’t really explain.  It’s beer with a shot of something in it.  I think mine is the same beer without the shot, but she had to argue with the barkeep to get him to do it that way.”

I take a sip -- it’s very sweet, the shot was obviously syrup and not liquor.  “It’s good.  Not what I expected.”

Simon tastes his, and makes a comically surprised face.  “Oh my god, it’s sour.”

I take another drink of mine, and I do taste some sourness, under the sweet.  It doesn’t taste like beer, really.  “Is it good, though?”

He drinks again, looks thoughtful, then nods.  “Once I get over the surprise.”

My chest swells with fondness, and I crowd even closer to him, wrap my arm around his waist and brush a kiss against his cheek.  I feel him giggling more than I hear it, and he pushes me back gently.

There are a lot of people around us right now, which I’m sure is his hesitation.  But I _really_ want to snog him here, to spend the evening draped over him until we can’t stand it anymore and finally go home and fuck like animals.

Which means we’re going to need someplace semi-private.  Of course nothing here is actually private, but maybe over there by the wall…?

I take his hand and lead him across the room, to a dark spot that looks slightly less populated than anywhere else in here.

_-Simon-_

I definitely know what he’s doing.  We’ve only gone clubbing like this a couple of times, but he’s always all over me.  I think he’s something of an exhibitionist.  I’m certainly not, but it is fun to humour him a bit.  And it’s definitely worth it when we get home after -- if I tease him enough, I can get him to actually be a little rough with me.

Thinking about what I know is coming is actually starting to get me a little excited, even though there are like a million people here.  I wonder if that has anything to do with the pot we smoked?  I’m definitely feeling more relaxed about the whole public thing than I think I would be if I wasn’t sort of stoned.  And I’ve been drinking too, though I haven’t had much, just the one beer half an hour ago, and now this one.

I take a drink from my beer as Baz navigates us slowly through the crowd.  The glass in his hand is already half empty -- he must really have been thirsty.  And I’m sure with the shot in, his barely tastes like alcohol at all.

There’s a spot right against the wall with a little standing-height table that already has half a dozen empty and mostly-empty glasses on it, and this is where Baz stops.  It’s not quite so loud here as it was out on the dance floor, but with this volume level that just means you’re no longer feeling the music in your molars -- you still can’t actually hear anything else.

He clinks his glass to mine with a smile, and we both drink deeply.  I guess I was thirsty too, and I’m starting to feel like I want a snack as well.  That’ll be something to bring up a little later, see if that Currywurst stand outside is still open.

Baz’s glass is almost empty now, and he sets it on the table, focusses his attention on me.  I’m definitely ready for him, and I take down the rest of my drink before I set it aside as well.  He nuzzles under my left ear, his favourite spot to start when he’s kissing my neck, right on that big mole.  The touch is a slightly ticklish caress, at once sweet and erotic, and I have no desire to suppress my moan of pleasure.

_-Baz-_

I press my nose into the curve between his neck and his shoulder, nudging the collar of his t-shirt aside.  His pulse is right here under his skin, hot and strong, and he smells so sweet, so delicious.  I've always wanted him, _always_ wanted him.

His arms tighten around my back, his hands smoothing up over my shoulder blades, and he makes a low sound that rattles my bones, tingles every nerve ending, and shuts down whatever executive control I had left.   _I've always wanted him ... I want him more than I ever have._

_-Simon-_

The softness of Baz's lips changes to a scrape of something hard, and the contrast is so erotic my knees go weak.  Who cares if we're technically in public, we're in a club and it's dark and--

The scrape suddenly becomes sharp, a jolt of burning pain, and I feel like I've been plunged into ice, suddenly drowning in panic.  I want to scream but I can't, I can't breathe.  Even my arms barely work but I manage to get them between us, to shove with all my strength at the thing in front of me that's trying to kill me--

Baz stumbles backwards, catches himself with a hand on the wall.  He looks dazed, not himself; his eyes are dilated totally black, and his fangs are huge, so big he can't close his mouth.  He's slouching and breathing hard and for a moment there's a hungry look on his face that freezes me all over again.

_-Baz-_

I've tasted him.  I don't think this flavour will ever leave my tongue.  It's surrounding me, choking me, making me mad.  It colours the entire world crimson.

I force myself to try to focus, to stand upright instead of lurching back towards him and burying my teeth in his flesh.  The pounding music sounds like his heartbeat and it’s almost irresistibly hypnotic.

I finally manage to look at his face, and it's a picture of terror: eyes wide, teeth clenched, nostrils flaring as he struggles to breathe.  A bloom of red is staining the collar of his shirt but if I look at that I'll lose myself all over again. _I've always wanted him._

_-Simon-_

I don't know how long we stay like this, this horrible standoff.  It feels like an aeon.

His posture changes, and I flinch, my instincts trying to force me to back away through the solid wall.  But he's just regaining his balance, and then he claps his hand over his mouth in horror and suddenly he's not a monster any more, he's my Baz again and he knows what he's done and _he's going to hate himself_.

My heart softens in an instant.  "Baz..."

"No," he gasps, and it's almost too quiet to hear over the continuous thumping of the music.

"Baz, please--"  I reach out and grab his hand, and he tries to jerk away, but I hold tight, I don't let him run from me.  This is his left hand I've got, the one with his shiny new wedding ring, the one he hasn't taken off since I put it there four days ago.  My own ring feels suddenly heavy on my finger, hanging on my knuckle; I haven't taken it off either.

_-Baz-_

I don't know how or why Simon is doing this, but he's got my hand in his, and I can't break free.  He takes a few steps, pulling me, and despite my resistance he drags me through the crowd and finally takes me outside into the courtyard, into the frigid November night.

The cold air is a shock, and my body is so terribly confused.  I finally manage to yank my hand free from his, just in time to lean against the brick and gag.

Despite my distress I'm still hyper-aware of all the people around me, of all the warm bodies out here in the Hinterhof, many of them smoking, and the smell is a disgusting combination of tobacco, cannabis, and beer.  I know some of that stink is myself, it's in my own mouth, sweet and hoppy and sour.

The people nearby shy away while I dry-heave, but nothing comes up.  After a minute I regain control of myself and spit onto the ground, saliva and a bit of Simon's blood and a whiff of my own bile.  I can still taste the blood on my tongue and I wish I could scrape it out.  I wish it wasn't so delicious.  I wish I wasn't still _thirsty_ for him.

_-Simon-_

Baz manages not to be sick, though he's still looking quite shaky when he stands up and turns around, leaning his shoulders against the wall and breathing deeply.  He's terribly under-dressed for the weather but there's a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he wipes at it weakly, then wipes his mouth.  I notice that his teeth are back to normal, though his eyes still look a bit dazed.

"You okay?" I murmur.

He wobbles his head side to side, not a yes or a no.  "'S not about me."  He closes his eyes.  "Are _you_ okay?"

I'm feeling a million different things right now, and I don't know how to answer.  I'm feeling the two beers that I drank, and the pot we smoked, and both of them are making my limbs and my head heavy, making everything blurry and bright and slow and fast.  And then there's the adrenalin from the panic a minute ago, making my nerves sharp and metallic, and my heart is even now still racing.  And my stomach is upset, roiling from fear and a sympathetic reaction to Baz's gagging.

_Am I okay?_

My shoulder stings where he bit me.  ( _He bit me._ )  It's a weird sensation, not like I would expect from a normal scrape or cut, and that must be the vampire venom.  Tingly and cold and hot and both sharp and aching pain, but it seems to be localised to the area right around the wound.  He must not have gone deep.

"I'm fine," I say, and I can tell how obvious the lie is as soon as it's past my lips.

He opens his eyes and looks like he's about to cry.  "I'm _so_ sorry...."

"You didn't turn me," I whisper.  "It's ... you didn't.  I can feel it and it's just in my shoulder, it's not spreading."

His face crumples, and he chokes out a broken sob before he covers his face with both hands.

I don't know what to do.  I think touching him might be a bad idea right now, but I want it too badly to listen to that part of myself.

I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze.  He shudders -- he's weeping freely now -- but he doesn't pull away.

After a minute I step closer, but he puts an arm out, prevents me from getting too near.  He looks a mess, but I can tell he's beginning to get himself under control again.  "We have to get you home," he says.

"I'm fine," I say again, and I mean it a bit more this time.

"No, Simon, you're not.  I need to look at that, I have to make sure it's not ... you know."

I don't know, but I think he doesn't either.  Neither of us knows shit about this.  I don't think _anyone_ does.  It's terrifying.

I nod.  "Yeah."

"I'll go get our coats."

"No, stay here, sit down, you're not well.  I'll go get them."

There's a bench a few steps away, the same one we sat on before I think.  It’s recently cleared of its former occupants, and he sits heavily on the edge of it.  "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing, I'm fine.  Just wait here."

_-Baz-_

When Simon disappears back into the club I get the horrible, overwhelming feeling that this was the last time I’m ever going to see him, and it makes me feel sick all over again.  I lean forward with my elbows on my knees my hands on my forehead, and I breathe through my nose for a minute until the feeling weakens.

It's fucking freezing out here.  Trust Snow to leave me where I'll die of cold.  Die again.  Or whatever death is going to mean for me.  I feel more dead than usual right now.  I fucking deserve it after what I've done.

And I'm still so thirsty; the craving for Simon's life is less now than it was, but it's still horribly powerful.  I've never been so disgusted with myself as I am right now.

I'm a _monster_.

Simon has told me before, multiple times, that I'm not.  I'm sure he believed it, though I never did.  I know what I am.  I know what I've _done_ , to the person I love the most, more than anything.  I swore I would never hurt him, I _vowed_ , and here we are not a week into our marriage and I've done the worst thing I possibly could.

A slight breeze kicks up, and the cold air bites at my exposed skin.  I let my hair down and slip the elastic on my wrist, and I shake my hair out, try to cover my neck and my ears with it until he gets back with my hat and scarf.

My hat and scarf seem like a ridiculous thing to expect right now.  He's never coming back.  For once in his life he's done the smart thing and run from me, far away, where I can't hurt him again.

I wrap my arms around my chest and wish I could sink into the ground and disappear.  I feel like everyone out here is staring at me, pretending not to pay attention to the pathetic sack of shit who's made the worst mistake of his life and ought to just die where he sits.

I think about crying more, but I'm not sure that I can.  Throwing up seems more likely but I don’t think I’m going to do that either.  The shock is past and now I just feel … dark.

Quick footsteps stop in front of me, and I look up at Simon.  His cheeks are pink, maybe from the cold, maybe from rushing to retrieve our things.  He's holding both our coats, and looks concerned.  "Are you cold?"

I shrug and stand up, taking my coat from him and slipping into it.  But I forgot to take my scarf out of the sleeve, so I have to pull it out the cuff like an idiot before I can wrap it around my neck.  My hat at least is just in the pocket, so I can pull it down over my ears without having to be awkward about it.  My fingers are getting cold enough that I have some dexterity trouble with my buttons before I can get my gloves on.

Simon has his coat on now, and his hat, but his scarf is just draped over his shoulders, on the outside of the coat collar.  I'm about to ask him if he isn't cold before I remember that his shoulder is bleeding and I'm sure he doesn't want to get it on the scarf.

He tips his head to the side and gives me a concerned look.  "What is it?"

I shake myself, try to stop thinking about his blood.  "Nothing."

He must know I'm lying, but doesn't say anything, just extends his hand towards me.  When I don't take it his expression twists in frustration, and he steps close enough that he can just grab it.  I don't fight it.  What would be the point?

"Take me home," he murmurs.  "Please."

It feels like such a terrible idea -- what will I do to him when we're alone? -- but I know it's what has to happen.

We're really not far from Fiona's place, but Simon's sense of direction is embarrassingly bad, so it's up to me to lead the way.  I tighten my fingers in his, just a bit, and we set off.

_-Simon-_

When we get up to Fiona's flat, Baz struggles with the keys.  It's not really a difficult thing, but his hands are shaking, either from the cold or from nerves, and he fumbles them, drops them on the floor.  I'm hesitant to offer my help.  This new dynamic between us is confusing, and it came on so suddenly--

We both turn when the other door on the landing opens, and a thirtyish woman steps out, a challenging look on her face.  "Hey!  Was machst du denn da?"

Baz blinks at her.  "Wir, uh ... wir besuchen Fiona."

The woman's eyes narrow.  "Fiona ist doch gar nicht zu Hause."

"Ich weiß, ich weiß," Baz says quickly.  "Aber wir bleiben hier.  Wir ... um.  Ich bin ihre ..."

He trails off and looks at me, searching.  I have no idea what he's saying.

He turns back to the woman, who has her lips pursed now.  "Sie ist meine Tante," Baz finally says.

The woman's face morphs to understanding.  "Oh!  Jetzt verstehe ich, ihr seid also Basil und Simon."

I recognize my name, and Baz looks relieved.  "Yes, I'm Basil, and this is Simon."

"I'm sorry," she says, in English, "I didn't know you would already be here."

"Yes, well, maybe we can catch up tomorrow?" Baz says, and he's sounding a little desperate.  "It's quite late."

"Yes, of course," the woman says, and she seems to have caught on that there's something happening between Baz and me.  She steps back into her flat.  "Wiedersehen.  Good night."

Baz wrenches the door open with enough strength that I'm a little concerned he broke the latch, and he stumbles inside, shaking off the droplets of freezing rain that started to fall just before we arrived.  I strip off my coat and hang it on the peg, and drop my hat on the table because I'm not sure what else to do with it -- it's too wet to go in the pocket.

My shoulder feels weird where my shirt is clinging to me, sticky and pulling on top of all the weird sensations in the flesh itself.  I pull it off over my head despite the stinging, and head into the bathroom.

The mirror reveals the state of it, and it looks worse than I thought.  There's quite a bit of blood smeared, to the point that I can't really tell what the actual wound is.  But there aren't any big drips, so I guess it can't have been bleeding too freely -- I suppose that's a plus?

I look at the shirt in my hands, and I'm glad I just wore a long-sleeve t-shirt to go out tonight, because it's definitely ruined, a big red blotch staining the collar and halfway down the shoulder.  I'm sure Baz could cast a spell to take it right out, but I can't make him do that, it just seems awfully cruel.  It's only a shirt.  I've probably got another exactly like it.

I look out into the room, and he's standing over by the door, watching me and looking a bit green.  "How is it?" he says, and he sounds choked.

"Bloody."

He nods, and I can see him breathing carefully through his nose.  I wonder if he's going to be sick now that we're indoors and he can't escape the smell.

"I don't know what to use to clean it up," I say, and he blinks a couple of times.

"Oh.  Probably not a flannel, I'd guess.  I don’t want to stain her linens and risk not being able to get it out."

I look down at the cloth in my hands.  "I could just use the shirt, I suppose, it's done anyway."

"She's probably got some paper towels somewhere in the kitchen."

I find a clean bit of the shirt and turn on the tap, start waiting for it to get warm.  "It's okay.  This is fine."

It takes a minute for the water to get hot enough, and Baz inches his way closer.  By the time I finally get the cloth wet, he's just outside the door, just a few steps away.  "Want me to do that?" he says softly.

"I've got it.”  I don't want him to have to do this.  I touch it to the edge of the bloody bit, and it feels weird, on the skin that's been affected by his venom.  The shirt's red when I pull it away a moment later, and I guess I expected my skin to look some kind of strange way, but I don't notice a difference.

" _Can_ I do it, though?" Baz asks.  "You can't reach that well."

"I can reach okay."

"Please?"

Shit, how am I supposed to say no to him?  I still think it’s a bad idea, but … “Okay.”

He has me sit down on the closed toilet lid, then takes the shirt from me and starts inspecting the bite.  I can hear him breathing carefully, and I try not to think about what this must be doing to him, on so many levels.  The damage he did to me, my blood all over everything.  I know how tempting it is for him.  How it brings out the side of him that he hates.

I can help flinching and sucking a breath through my teeth when he brushes our makeshift flannel over the open part of the wound. It stings, but it's a more normal kind of sting, I think, than when he first bit me.  Just the sting of water on raw flesh.

I stop trying to watch what he’s doing, and just tip my head away and let my eyes fall shut, giving him space.  He works slowly, rinsing out the shirt from time to time.  I look back when I hear him sigh.  “It’s clean.  Still bleeding a tiny bit, though.”

I try to look down, but I can’t see my own shoulder.  Baz takes a step back to let me stand up, and I look at it in the mirror.  There’s a pair of parallel scratches that start just behind the high point of my trapezius, come towards my neck for an inch, then forward for another inch, one a bit longer than the other.  There is still a little bit of wet blood welling in the deeper parts, but not nearly as much as I feared.

“It looks all right,” I say.  “I thought it would be worse.”

Baz is backed up against the door frame, and he crosses his arms over his chest.  Usually when he does this it’s an aggressive gesture, but this time his shoulders hunch, and he looks like he’s trying to hide.

“It’s not the wound itself,” he says softly.  “It’s the venom.  That’s what would Turn you.”

“You didn’t Turn me.”

“We don’t know _what_ I did,” he says forcefully.  “As far as we know, this has never happened before.”

I can’t help rolling my eyes; he’s such a drama queen.  “You’re not the first vampire.  I’m certain this _has_ happened before.”

“Lot of good that’ll do us,” he scoffs.  “We still don’t _know_.”

“What can I do to convince you?”  I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice.  “Can I tell you it feels kind of numb around it, but it’s not spreading?  Can I tell you that I still feel like myself?  That I’m not thirsty for blood?”

His eyes are wide and he’s breathing hard, but he’s clenching his jaw, not speaking.

“I know what it’s like,” I say, more gently, “to have your whole feeling of yourself suddenly -- change.  I can’t forget what it felt like to lose my magic.  I became a different person all at once, like I died and got remade.  But I don’t feel like that now.  I’m still me.  I’m not changed at all, just … slightly wounded.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and a couple of tears fall.  “You’ve never told me about losing your magic.”

I shudder; there’s a reason for that.  “What’s to tell?”

I’m sure he can tell I’m bluffing, but he doesn’t push me.  He looks exhausted.  “We should put a bandage on that.”

We really should, especially since it’s not done bleeding.  I open the medicine cabinet, but all Fiona has are small plasters.  “Shit,” I breathe.

“There must be a chemist open,” Baz says, pulling out his phone.  There’s an edge of desperation to his voice.

“It’s one in the morning.”

“Berlin stays up all night.”

“I don’t think the chemists do.”

“You’re not _helping_.”  I close my mouth, and watch quietly while he searches.  “I found one that’s twenty-four hours,” he finally says.  “But it’s at the Hauptbahnhof in Mitte.  Five kilometres.  Half an hour on transit.”

“You could take a cab.”

He groans and lets his hands drop.  “I can’t -- I can’t leave you.”

My chest tightens.  “I don’t want you to leave me either, but what else are we going to do?”

He gets a weird look on his face.  “Maybe there’s a spell.”

“What sort of spell?”

“I don’t know, like … maybe I could make one of these plasters bigger.”

“There’s a spell for that?”

“If you give me a minute maybe I can remember!”  He turns around and walks out of the bathroom, sits heavily on the foot of the bed with his forehead leaned into one hand.  I follow, carefully.

“Fuck, I can’t _think_ ,” he growls.  “I wish Bunce was here.”

Oh shit, _Penny._  “Good thing she isn’t,” I say softly.  “You’d probably be dead by now.”

He looks up at me in horror.  “What?”

“She’d kill you.”  It’s awful to say it and realise it’s true, that she really would.  That she _will_ when she finds out.  “She’s always told me that she’d kill you if you ever hurt me.  And it’s Penny, so I believe her.”

The look on his face is horrible.  “You’re _really_ not helping.”

“Sorry.”

“Fuck.  Buggering, shitting fuck.”  He puts both hands on his face and drags them down.  I’m starting to feel cold, standing here shirtless.

“What if I texted her?” I ask.  “It’s an hour earlier there, she might still be up.  I can ask if there’s a spell for making things bigger.  If I don’t tell her what it’s about we’ll be fine, she’ll probably assume it’s a sex thing.”

“Which is exactly what we want,” he sighs, sarcastically.  “Go on, then.”

I take my phone out, and try to stop my fingers trembling.   _What’s a spell to make something bigger?_

I hit send, and watch anxiously for a few seconds until it shows delivered.  My heart leaps when it flips over to _read_ a moment later, and then the bubble pops up.  “She’s typing.”

Baz is staring at me, biting his lip.  I can barely breathe.

_Don’t let Baz cast a spell on your prick Simon_

A relieved laugh bursts out of me.  “She thinks it’s sex.”

Baz is even paler than usual, but he’s breathing, he nods.

 _It’s not that,_ I reply to Penny.   _For an inanimate object I promise_

_Don’t use a spell on a condom either just buy the right size_

_Christ Penny give us some credit it’s not for sex_

_So tell me what it is for_

“She wants to know what it’s for,” I say, and I think I sound as nervous as I feel.  “I told her it’s not for sex.”

“Give her half the truth,” Baz says.  “Say you tripped on the kerb and skinned your knee and you need a big plaster for it.”

“But why wouldn’t you just heal that?”

“Same reason I’m not healing this, I’m not a fucking doctor.”  His voice is shaking, and he sounds a bit choked.

I frown at my phone.  I need to reply before she catches on it’s a lie.   _Fell and banged up my knee pretty good.  Baz is drunk so I don’t trust him with a healing spell.  The plasters at Fiona’s are too small and there isn’t a chemist open so we thought we’d make a small one bigger._

 _Lol!_  Penny’s reply is quick, and I sigh in relief.

“I told her you’re too drunk to cast a healing spell.”

He scowls.  “I’d be upset with you for that if it wasn’t a good idea.”

 _Try “supersize me”,_ Penny says.   _It might make it comically large but it should work._

Of course -- that’s one I actually remember using a couple of times.  “She says to use _supersize me._ ”

“Oh, of course!”  Baz is up and has his wand out in an instant.  “I actually know that one.”

He fetches the plasters from the bathroom and takes them to the table.  I watch in confusion as he pulls two out of the box.

“I only need one.”

“We’ll put one on your knee and send her a picture,” he says.

“That seems excessive.”

“It’s not excessive if it stops her from killing me.”  He licks his lips and brandishes his wand.  “ **_Supersize me!_ ** ”

Both bandages expand rapidly, the same shape but four times the length and width.  They would look funny if I wasn’t still kind of freaked out.

Baz is looking considerably calmer, though.  He picks one up and turns to me.  “This is a little ridiculous but it should do the job.  Sit down.”

I perch on the edge of the bed and tip my head away again while he sticks it to me.  The adhesive goes way down my back and my chest, but the gauze is large enough to cover the wound.

“What about my knee?”

“Take your trousers off.”  He’s already going for the second plaster.

“Baz, I’m not sending Penny a picture of my pants.”

“Do you have a better idea?”  He turns around, and his eyebrows are drawn together in annoyance.  “It has to be believable so she doesn’t show up here tomorrow morning and murder me.”

I wish I didn’t have to lie to Penny, but I don’t have a better idea.  I stand up and unbutton my jeans.  “Fine.”

I sit back down while he sticks it to my knee, and I realise too late that I’m probably going to lose some leg hair in this.  “Okay,” he says, sitting back on his heels.  “Show that to Bunce.”

The tableau is pretty convincing, I guess, and I snap a picture before I can think about it too much.  Baz’s knees are in the shot, as well as my jeans in a pile on the floor, and I’ve still got my socks on.

I send the photo to Penny and hope to magic that this works.

_-Baz-_

The comically-oversized bandages are salt in the fucking wound, and apparently the last straw for me keeping it together.  I can’t believe it came to this.  I wish like fuck we could have done this with some kind of dignity, but instead … this shit.

Simon’s mostly naked up on the bed, staring nervously at his phone while he waits for Bunce’s response.  I’m still kneeling on the floor because I’m shaking too hard to stand up.

Finally a hesitant smile breaks across his face.  “She asks if it’s as bad as it looks.”

I tip sideways and catch myself on the bed.  “Fuck.”

“Shit, Baz!  Are you okay?”

I wave my arm at him; my heart is pounding and I can’t catch my breath.  Tears are prickling in my eyes.  “Text her back.  You didn’t want to risk bleeding on Fiona’s sheets.”

While he’s typing I haul myself up onto the bed.  The shaking just gets worse and worse, I can’t stop it.  I don’t even know what I’m feeling but there’s so much of it, there’s too much, I can’t handle it, I can’t--

Simon’s hands are on my shoulders.  “Baz, what is it?  What’s going on?”

I shake my head and cover my mouth with my hand.  I wish I could tell him, but I don’t know what this is, I don’t know how to describe it.

I hate myself.  I absolutely, completely hate myself.  All of this is happening because I couldn’t fucking _control_ myself, I couldn’t keep my teeth in my mouth.  I came halfway to killing Simon because I was fucking _stupid._  “I’m a monster.”

“You’re not a monster.”

“I tried to _kill_ you, Simon.”

“No you didn’t, you just scratched me accidentally.”

I’m still shaking my head, and I clench my hand into a fist, drop it into my lap.  I force myself to make eye contact with him and my vision is watery.  “If I did that accidentally, imagine what else I could do.  I’m so dangerous, Simon, we don’t even realise how dangerous I am.”

"I'm not afraid," he murmurs, cradling my face in his hands.  His expression is breaking my heart, taking the tiny shards it’s already in and smashing them into dust.  "I know who I married."

Something inside me snaps.  I can't help the tears that flood my eyes, that drip down my cheeks, onto his fingers.  He rubs at them, but there are so many that he’s not drying my face, just smearing them around.  "You thought you knew me," I whisper.

"No, I know you for real," he says earnestly; I can’t help but believe him when he sounds like this.  "I knew this would happen someday.  And I knew it would turn out okay."

I shake my head, and his hands don't resist the motion.  "I could have killed you."

"You didn't.  You wouldn't."

"I might.  If I lost control."

"The worst you'd ever do is Turn me."

"That _is_ killing you."

"Baz."  He takes his hands off my face, wraps his arms around my body and shifts even closer to me.  "You're not dead, and you're not soulless.  I know there's a lot about your life that sucks, but there's a lot of good, too.  It's hardly death."

I want to argue, I really do, but ... I know he's right.  Even if I am some flavour of undead, I'm still here in the world, I still can feel and love and accomplish things.

And Simon has promised his life to me.  Today I gave him every reason, probably the strongest reason I could give, to break it off, to leave me before I do something worse.  He could have run after I bit him.  (Maybe he should have.  I don't think I'll ever stop thinking that.)  But he didn't, he's here and he's more concerned with _my_ welfare than with his own.

His heart is so … good, so big.  And somehow he's chosen _me._  I'm sure I don't deserve this, but here he is anyway.

Jesus fucking Christ, _I bit him._

He's watching me quietly while I'm trying to cope with all of this, and when I start paying attention to him again he gives me a tiny smile, and leans in and brushes a kiss on the corner of my mouth.  I hold my breath so I don't have to smell him as strongly.

"I'm not going to ask if you're okay," he says.

I nod, and sniffle.  "Thanks."

"But I am going to tell you I love you."

I feel my heart squeezing inside my chest.  "That's a dangerous thing to do."

"You've always told me I'm stupid.  No sense of self-preservation.  Which makes us perfect for each other."

"Or it makes this a monumentally bad idea."

He shrugs.  "We're married now.  We're in it for good."

There's an odd sort of opening sensation in my chest, and I can't help gasping.  "Fuck."

He holds me even tighter and I clutch him right back -- I can feel the bond between us, our magickal connection that we built last week.  It's like I'm feeling his soul.  Like the love I hold for him is being multiplied and coming back with the feeling of him all through it.  It's how it felt before, during the wedding.  When we were creating this.

I didn't realise it would keep feeling like this.  That it would come back when we need it.

I kiss him, and he shoves his face right back into mine.  The taste of him fills my mouth, my nose, my lungs; it gets inside my head, pushing aside what remains of the intoxication.  It's not his blood but it's almost as addictive, and better because I know I _can_ enjoy this, he's giving it to me but it takes nothing from him.  It only exists when we're sharing it.

He breaks off me with a little wet noise, and he's breathing hard.  "Are you feeling it too?" I ask.

He nods.  "I don't know what it is."

"It's our bond."  I take my hand from wherever it was on his back and touch his cheek; he leans into me.  "It's all that magic, this is what that was for.  We're going to have this forever."

He closes his eyes, and I can tell he's focussing on it, being amazed by it, though I don't know how I know.  "Wow," he breathes.

"Yeah."

He opens his eyes, and they're a little misty.  "We're really going to have this forever?"

"That's the idea."

He shakes his head.  "I love you so much."

I run my thumb over his cheek; my head is finally clear, and I feel my words down to my core: "I love you, too, Simon."

He leans in and kisses me slowly, softly.  It never ceases to amaze me how good he is at this.

_-Simon-_

I'm probably imagining the taste of rust on Baz's tongue; it's been an hour since the bite, and he didn't drink from me at all, it was just a scratch, I barely bled.  But I’m still aware of it, whether it’s really there or not.  My blood in his mouth.

I know I’m not imagining all the salt.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry as hard as he was just now, and it just makes me want to wrap him up in my arms and never let anything hurt him again.  I know that’s impossible but I want it with my whole heart.

Kissing him like this is scratching that itch pretty well, though.  He’s melting under my touch, surrendering to me, letting me caress him with everything I have.  And he’s making tiny little moaning noises in his throat.

But I’m not prepared to have sex with him tonight.  Not after what just happened.  I’m sure he’s not up for that either.

I wrap my arms around him and pull him over sideways, so we’re both lying on the bed.  Our legs are still hanging off, but it doesn’t matter.  I tuck my head under his chin and hold him as tightly as I can, and his arms squeeze my shoulders.

He heaves a heavy sigh.  “I think I should go to bed.”

I’m feeling it too.  There’s been altogether too much of today, and it needs to be over.  “Me too.”

He kisses the top of my hair, then rolls over and gets up.  I stand up more slowly, and I half watch him while I finish undressing and put on my pyjamas.  He goes in the bathroom first, then me, and by the time I’m done brushing my teeth and taking out my contacts he’s already bundled into bed with the lights off.

When I climb into bed beside him he reaches for me, and I take his hands in mine.  “I love you.”

He squeezes my hands, and it takes him a minute to answer.  “I love you too.  I’m sorry about tonight.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to be sorry.”

“I am, though.  It’s me who did this.”

“Okay.”  I bring his fingers up to my face and kiss them gently.  “It’s not your fault but I forgive you anyway.”

He breathes a shuddering sigh.  “Thank you.”

“Get some sleep.  It’s a whole new day tomorrow.”

He lifts one hand and touches my cheek, and I reach to kiss his fingers again.  “Okay,” he says, and I can hear him smiling a little even though I can’t see it.  “Good night.”

“Good night.”

He rolls onto his other side, away from me; this is how he always sleeps, though tonight it feels like he’s hiding.  I scoot up as close behind him as I dare, brushing my knees on the backs of his thighs and my elbows on his shoulder blades.  He shifts, moving back slightly into my touch, and I let myself relax.

His breathing evens and he falls asleep almost immediately, which doesn’t surprise me.  He’s been through an emotional wringer this evening.

I’ve had a tough day as well, but for some reason, sleep feels elusive now I’m in bed.

I have to figure out how to tell Penny about this.  Because she _has to_ know.

But I also have to figure out how to express to her that he didn’t do this on purpose, it was an accident and he feels terrible and I’m sure it’ll never happen again.  And I’m not even that hurt.

It does ache, though, and I’m laying on it right now.  Maybe I shouldn’t be doing that?

I give Baz one more little caress before I roll over, and he doesn’t react -- he must really be out.

My injury throbs a couple times once the pressure is off it, and I wonder if it’s started bleeding again.  Or maybe that weird sensation is from the vampire venom changing the flesh there.  Turning it.  Does it work that way?  Can just a part of you be Turned?  Is my shoulder immortal now?  Is Baz even immortal?  He obviously still ages normally but maybe that’ll change now he’s an adult?

This is a stupid train of thought.  All of these questions I’m sure will be answered in time, but nobody knows right now.  It won’t do either of us any good to worry at it.

I try shifting my posture, pulling the duvet up higher, and then I move a little, so my back just touches his.  This is it, this is what I needed -- to still be touching him, to know he’s here.  We’ll find a way to tell Penny in the morning.  I don’t have to sort it out now.

I close my eyes, and I fall asleep to the sound of Baz breathing beside me.

  
  
  


_-Baz-_

 

I can feel that Simon isn’t here even before I’m fully conscious.

It’s not a pleasant way to wake up.  I’m sitting up in bed almost before I realise what I’m doing -- Simon’s not beside me, and the sheets are cool, so he’s been gone for a while.  The flat is so tiny I know he’s not here; there’s only the one room and the bathroom, and he’s not in there either.

 _Simon is gone_.

My chest is squeezing so tight I can barely breathe.

I try to look around the room more carefully -- his phone isn’t on the table where it was plugged in, though the charger still is.  His coat and shoes aren’t by the door either.

_He left me._

The tears come all at once, unexpectedly, and I’m completely overwhelmed.  I don’t even really know what I’m feeling, only that the only thing I can do is sob into Fiona’s duvet and feel more alone than I ever have in my life.

The sound of the door opening is a kick in the stomach, and then I hear Simon: “Good morning, beautiful!”

I look up to see him setting two coffee cups and a paper bag of pastries on the table, and he pushes the door shut before he turns and looks at me; the smile falls off his face in an instant.  “Oh my god, Baz, what’s wrong?”

I want to launch across the room and embrace him but I can’t even move.  “You left,” I gasp, trying and failing to get a handle on my continued sobbing.

He drops his coat on the floor, then takes the few steps that separate us and sits on the bed, right in front of me, and sets his hand on mine where it’s twisted in the blankets, squeezes it tightly.  “I just went down for coffee.  I told you I’d be right back, you said okay.”

I shake my head; I don’t remember that at all.  “I must have -- been asleep.”

“Shh, it’s okay.”  He puts his other hand on the side of my face, and it’s so wonderful I have to close my eyes.  His thumb strokes my cheek.  “It’s okay, I’m back.  I didn’t leave you, I just went to get you coffee.”

“Don’t leave me,” I beg, and it comes out a whisper.  “Please, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he says, firmly.  “Never.  Do you hear me?   _Never._  I’m never leaving you.  I made a promise and I’ll be damned before I break it.”

I throw my arms around his neck, and he wraps his around me in return, holding tight to my ribs, supporting me with his warm solidity.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he murmurs.  “Next time I’ll make sure you’re properly awake before I go.”

I still can’t speak, but I nod, and half a second later I realise where I’ve buried my face -- in his left shoulder, right where I bit him last night.

I jerk away, and he makes a startled noise.  “What?”

“Your shoulder.”

He looks down at it, and I try to back away as much as I can, which isn’t far.  “It’s fine,” he says, looking back up at me.  “I checked on it this morning, took the bandage off.  It’s scabbed over and everything.”

“I -- I just--”

“Baz, honestly, it’s _fine_.”  He pulls his collar to the side and shows me the two red scratches.  I can barely stand to see them.  “Look, it’s okay.  I know you’re still … whatever, baggage.  But I’m fine.”

I guess _whatever, baggage_ is supposed to cover bloodlust, and I suppose it does.  But I need to change the subject and I focus on the second-strongest smell in the flat after Simon.  “You brought coffee.”

A smile brightens his face.  “Yeah.  Went on an adventure to the place on the corner.”

He’s still too close to me.  I stand up and retrieve my dressing gown from the pile it was in on the floor and tie it around my waist.  “Adventure how?”

“Because I don’t speak German.”

I inspect the cups on the table, and Simon steps over as well.  “Espresso is Italian,” I point out.

“Yeah, I realised that when I got there.”  Simon picks up one of the cups and takes the lid off -- it’s dark, probably his usual Americano.  “Also everybody speaks English, especially once they figure out I don’t speak German.”

I take the lid off the other coffee.  It’s frothy on top, which is a good sign, and it smells good though I’m not sure what the flavour is.  “So what did you get me?”

“That was the adventure,” Simon says, sitting down and draping his elbow over the back of the chair.  “The barista didn’t know the English words for all of the syrups, so I got you praline because I knew what it was.”

I take a sip.  “Mmm, that’s good.”

He grins.  “Also I didn’t know how to order semi-skimmed so I don’t know what kind of milk it is.”

“That doesn’t really matter.”

“And I got a couple of croissants too.  Figured they’d be good with the cheese and sausage we have in the fridge.”

“That’s very German of you.”  The tightness in my chest now is to the point that I can no longer pretend it’s not there, and I lean heavily on the back of the chair.  “Why are you doing this?”

I’m not looking at him but I can feel his eyes on me, I know his surprised expression.  “What?”

“This.”  I wave my hand at the table.  “Coffee, croissants.”

“Why wouldn’t I?  I always wake up first, it makes sense.”

“Because of last night.”

“Baz.”  He leans forward on the table, into my line of sight.  “You’ve got to get past that.”

Anger flares inside me, a hot flame of aggression.  “Get _past_ it?!”

“Get past it, put it behind you, whatever you have to do.”  He has his hands flat on the table now, and a determined look on his face.  “How many times do I have to tell you it’s fine?  Yeah you drew blood, but it was just a scratch, I’m not hurt, and it’s not your fault.”

“How is it _not my fault_?” I demand.

Simon pushes the chair back and stands up, facing me with that same stupid bravery he’s always had.  “You can’t help who you are.”

“ _What_ I am is a monster,” I say, and it comes out a growl.  “I _let_ this happen.  I knew it was a slippery slope and I did it anyway.  I drank, I smoked, I fucking told myself it was okay to want you like that.”

“Jesus _Christ,_ Baz!”  He slaps a hand on his forehead then pushes it through his hair.  “How much more clear can I be?  It _is_ okay for you to want me like that.  I’ve known you wanted to bite me since we were thirteen years old, and frankly I’m surprised it took this long.”  He sighs angrily, leans one arm on the back of the chair and puts the other on his hip, tapping his fingers in an agitated way.  “Fuck, I thought we had sorted this out last night.”

I thought we had, too, at the time.  But everything is raw again this morning, now we’re completely sober and the sun is shining.  It’s awful and I just want things to go back to how they were before.

I put my hands on my face and breathe in slowly, then blow it out.  I still feel awful.

Simon steps close and hooks a finger in the pocket of the robe, just barely holding on to me.  “It’s okay for this to be okay.”

I don’t take my hands down.  “I don’t know how to make it okay.”

“You don’t have to make it anything, it’s already there.”  He lifts his hand to my arm.  His touch is warm, solid, grounding -- suddenly the badness is halved.  “I love you.”

Finally I can look up.   _I love you, I love you, I love you --_  “I love you, too.”  My heart almost breaks, trying to say it out loud, and he smiles like a sunrise.

“There, you see?”  His thumb strokes my shoulder.  “That’s all we need.  I love you as much as I did on our wedding day.  Maybe even more, but who’s counting?”

I can’t help smiling at that, though it feels weird on my face, and dissolves after a moment.  “I’m sure I love you more now than I did a few days ago.”

“I’d choose you all over again.”  He’s standing very close now, and gently lowers my arms, takes my hands in his.  “I’ll choose you every day forever, if you want me to.”

I hold tight to his fingers.  “I’ll never stop wanting to eat you.”

“I know.”  He shrugs.  “The fact that I’m alive is a miracle anyway, after everything.  I don’t really know how to live unless something wants me dead.”

“Even if that something is your husband?”

One side of his mouth curls up.  “I know you don’t actually want me dead.  Even that thirsty part of you just wants a drink, it doesn’t want me to die.”

“I suppose.”  I remember that I used to want to kill him, years and years ago.  It feels like another lifetime.

Simon takes the last step that separates us and brushes a kiss to my cheek.  “There.  We’re okay.”  He takes half a step back again.  “Now can you enjoy that I brought you breakfast in bed on our honeymoon?”

I lean back towards him and press my cheek against his, and take a deep breath.  He smells like home.  “As long as I don’t have to eat it in bed.”

“That’s fine,” he murmurs, sliding his arms around me.  “Wherever you want.”

“I want at the table.”

“Okay.”  He lets go, draws back a bit.  “I’ll get the--”

“No, let me.  You already went out, have a seat.”

He sits back in his chair and leans back, crosses his legs casually and watches me go to the little fridge and get out the rest of our food.

"You should have some blood with your breakfast,” he says.

I groan in a way that I'm afraid is melodramatic, and push the refrigerator door shut. "I don't want to. Not after yesterday."

"All the more reason you should do it. It's good for you."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You're not my mum."

He leans forward on one elbow and gives me a gentle smile. "No, I'm your husband."

I set the meat and cheese on the table in front of him.  “You’re going to play that card on me for the rest of our lives, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am, it’s the best card there is.”

I can’t help smiling back at him a little, and even though blood sounds really unappealing right now I know he’s right about it being good for me, and I honestly can’t imagine fighting him about this when he’s being so sweet.  “Fine, you win.”  I turn back to the fridge.

“Thanks, love.”

The jar from Fiona’s butcher is different from the jars I get blood in at home, and it makes the whole thing feel weird.  It makes me feel a bit like I did years ago when I first switched to butcher blood, remembering that uncertainty at it being different, even though I knew it was better than hunting and killing on my own.

I sit down with the jar and cast **She keeps me warm** to heat it up like I always do, and I try not to think about killing.  When it’s warm enough I take a tentative sip.  It’s good blood, fresh, tastes like the swine was fed well.  It’s honestly delicious, and I’m disgusted with myself.

“Hey.”  Simon leans forward.  “What is it?”

I shake my head, can’t take my eyes off the thick red liquid in my hands.  “It … it’s not as good as yours.”

“You don’t have to.”

“What?”  I manage to look up at him, and I’m startled by the sadness on his face.

“I mean, this whole thing is obviously going to call for a lot of therapy, but this isn’t the time for it.”  He runs his hand through his hair and suppresses a sigh.  “Sometimes the time is wrong and you have to just … not cope with something for a while.”

He looks … I haven’t seen him look this way in a long time.  “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re on our honeymoon.”  He sets his hand on my shoulder, and I sort of want to draw away but I also never want him to stop touching me.  “You’re allowed to set this aside and not deal with it for a bit.  Jeri will help you with it later.  Right now I just want to have fun with you, and be in love, and … all that stuff.”

“I don’t know how to set it aside.”

He moves his hand down to mine.  “It’s hard.  But the best way to do it is to just focus on other things instead.”

I look down at the blood again.  “It’s sort of unavoidable.”

“Yeah, I know.  But maybe you can, like, only do that to the extent that you absolutely have to.  I know you usually drink sort of a lot of blood, but maybe back off for a bit, you’ll still be fine, right?”

I’m not convinced, but he’s making sense.  “Right.”

“So, just--”  He gestures at the jar.  “Have another drink, just enough to set you right, and then switch to coffee.”

It seems absurd.  But I don’t really have any better ideas, so.

I pick up the jar and take a deep swig, as deep as I can manage, just doing it to get it done.  When I’ve swallowed I put the lid on, take it back to the fridge, and shut the door a bit harder than I need to.  Simon is smiling hesitantly when I turn back.

“Okay?”

I pick up my coffee and take a drink, letting the aroma overwhelm me, push aside the haemoglobin.  It’s not the best coffee I’ve ever had but I _want_ to like it, so the pleasure isn’t tainted.

I sit down beside Simon again and give him what I hope is a convincing smile.  “Yeah.  Better.”

He leans over and kisses me, and I focus on the smell of espresso, of his deodorant.  “Can we be on our honeymoon again?”

“I need a little more time before I feel okay having sex with you.”

He nods.  “That’s fine.”

“Then yes.”  This time I’m the one to initiate the kiss.  “We can be on our honeymoon.”


End file.
